Summary of last week’s episode: I catch a kerosene thief in the act. Uncle performs a healing on his mother. I sneak out of town with his car. When my father taxied me up to go to school in Richfield, I brought my dog, Pinky, with me. At the time, there was a very popular show on television that was hosted by a guy named Pinky Lee. Everyone thought that I had named my dog after the TV star, but I didn’t. I gave him that name because when he was a pup, unlike the others in the litter, his nose was half pink. Eventually, it turned all black, and he was stuck with a rather wussy name – but Pinky was no wuss. In fact, he was a tough little dog and a kind of Casanova. Back in Brooklyn, I used to let him run free and it seemed, in the neighborhood, that every time someone’s dog had puppies, they would have Pinky’s black and white markings. In Richfield, my dog was loose and on his own most of the time. I was too caught up in making new friends, in trying to sneak out of the house and in hitching rides with whoever was cruising around town. He was a tough little dog who could take care of himself, but one time, Buster, a boxer who belonged to Junior from the Schuyler House Bar down the street, attacked Pinky in front of the Capital Theater. He had my dog by the back of his neck and wouldn’t let go. Without thinking, I pounded Buster on the top of his head with a hard fist. He just looked up at me and backed away. Being a city dog, Pinky was pretty good at crossing the street and avoiding cars, but one early summer afternoon, right in front of the house, there was a loud screech of brakes and then a thud. When I ran out to see what had happened, Pinky lay dead in the middle of the street. Uncle William also came out to see what had happened. I don’t think I ever saw him pet Pinky or even touch him. He would often complain about the dog hair that would stick to the rug in the dental waiting room. Now, he silently bent and picked up my limp dog and carried him in his arms towards the backyard. The driver of the car that had hit Pinky was apologizing profusely as my uncle turned the corner in back of the house. Though I felt terrible, I told the man that it wasn’t his fault, that Pinky shouldn’t have been loose in the street. Uncle William remained in back of the house for a long time. I knew that he wanted to be alone. After a time, the man got back in his car and pulled away. Then, Uncle William rounded the corner of the house looking drained and grave. Incredibly, Pinky followed a minute later. There was no doubt in my mind that my uncle had healed him. * * * During the summer before I started school in Richfield, I met Jerry Moss at the skating rink. He was a couple of years older than me, tall like Joe Gravelding and already had a beer belly that he was quite proud of. He was kind of cool for a country boy. Many of his moves were deliberate and stylized like mine were from the city. One of the first things we did was play chicken by dropping a lit cigarette between our extended forearms and just letting it sit there burning flesh. Neither of us withdrew our arms as the cigarette was growing shorter and our Utica Club bottles were growing empty. We decided to call it a draw, but I think Moss was impressed by my “tough guy” perseverance. “When school starts, you should join the wrestling team,” he told me. To be continued. Terry Berkson is a freelance writer from Richfield Springs.
|